


Do I Even Exist Anymore?

by sherlockssexysocks



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Addictions, Angst, BuckyNatBFFS, Caring Sam, Comfort, Damaged!Bucky, Dubious Consent, Excessive Alcohol Consumption, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt, Lonely!Bucky, Love, Multi, PTSD, Romance, angry!Steve, modern!AU, no powers, preserum!Steve, tiny!Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4342166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockssexysocks/pseuds/sherlockssexysocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Am I an asshole?" Bucky wonders.</p><p>Natasha purses her lips and doesn't answer, which is answer enough in Bucky's opinion. Bucky kicks at her playfully, a pout on his full lips.</p><p>"You're only agreeing with him because he's teeny and adorable and you've always wanted a pet." Bucky sneers.</p><p>Natasha gives him a hard look and shakes her head.</p><p>"Rogers is not pet material. You wanna lose that other hand? Call him 'teeny' and 'adorable' to his face." She deadpans.</p><p>Or:</p><p>Bucky is a struggling pianist who never realized what he was missing until the fiery, spirited Steve Rogers walked into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I Even Exist Anymore?

The air is brisk; fresh against his warm cheeks. The floorboards beneath his skin are smooth, welcoming, almost _begging_ him to stay there. _Don’t move_ , they whisper, _stay with us_. His breathing is even, his chest rising and falling steadily, his fingertips reaching out, curling over thin air, grabbing for something that isn’t there. Outside, he can just make out the sounds of cars and laughter and the hotdog vendor from down the street has just passed, the wheels of his cart creaking and the smell of his food wafting in through the open window. He places the soles of his feet on the smooth, pinewood floors and winces as he feels them shifting beneath his feet. He opens his eyes and watches in wonder as the ceiling above his head spins, a whirl of white and cream and gray. A small groan escapes his throat as he pushes himself into a sitting position, his stomach clenching terribly.

“Sweet _Jesus_.” He whines as the front door slams and buries his head in his hands. 

“What? Feeling sensitive?” Natasha asks obnoxiously loud as she goes about banging every cupboard in the small, cramped kitchen behind them and Bucky makes a soft sobbing sound. 

“Please, Nat. Hush.” He whispers, his head pounding and the room spinning around him at a frightening speed. 

There’s silence for a moment and then he can feel her at his feet, her cool hands gripping his ankles and Bucky knows he has no choice but to open his eyes at look at her. There is a flush on her cheeks and her hair is a topknot and-

“ _Fuck_.” Bucky hisses. “I missed rehearsals, didn’t I?” 

Natasha gives him an unimpressed look and nods slowly. 

“Yep. We had to dance to a backing track _again_ , James.” She says not unkindly. “Clint told me he went home early. Wanna tell me how you managed to stay out until six?”

Bucky’s mouth tastes as if he’d been chewing on shit and he drags his dry tongue along his chapped lips before shrugging, pushing his flesh hand through his matted, knotted hair.

“I met some friends and-”

“You don’t have any friends.” Natasha cuts across him, her eyes sharp and Bucky can’t lie to her.

“Found some kids, bought them beer and went back to their party.” Bucky mumbles, his cheeks heating a little at his admission.

His answer makes Natasha sigh but she strokes his feet all the same before getting to her feet and pulling him to his.

“Come on. I’ll make you something to eat and then you’re going to call Wanda and _beg_ her to give you one more chance.” She orders and Bucky knows better than to argue and so struggles along to the small dining table in the corner of the room and throws himself into the seat.

The walls are still moving, mocking him as they swirl in and out and Bucky closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. He presses his cool, metal hand to his forehead and feels his stomach churn at the smell of bacon sizzling on their old, burnt pan. Natasha is humming and the sunlight has finally crept its way across the room to warm his feet and Bucky feels as if he has been here before, the air tasting stale.

 

.

 

James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes is a fuck up. He’s the kind of waster your parents warned you about, the guy that you’re friends with for a few years but soon grow tired of. He’s straddling an abyss, teetering dangerously close to the edge and just _waiting_ to fall in. He doesn’t think he’d mind falling. It’d be peaceful. A welcome reprieve from the mess that is his life. But. See. He wasn’t always like this. Bucky had been happy. God, he’d been a young, happy, hard-working young man who’d made the fucking detrimental decision to ‘serve his country’ and boy, was he paying for that now. He’d only served one tour, had only managed six months before getting his arm blown off. Pathetic, right? One _miserable_ tour and Bucky had to be the idiot who jumped in front of the blast, had to be the guy to save the lives that hadn’t really been at risk anyway. He’d lost an arm and so James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes is a twenty-four year old war veteran.

_“A veteran? Don’t you, like, have to be old to be that?”_

He was discharged early. And honourably. ‘Cause. You know. He was suddenly down a limb and wasn’t really much use to anyone after that.

_“Son, we are just tickled pink that you still want to serve and we commend your dedication to your country’s cause but, well, you need both arms with your specific skill set. Sorry, James.”_

And so they’d flown him home and hooked him up with a prosthetics guy, courtesy of and had given him a pretty fucking _slick_ metal arm. And Bucky supposes it would have been ungrateful to tell them that he _hated_ the arm. Then, they’d just left him, back at home with Natasha and Bucky had been faced with the overwhelming question of _well, what do I do now?_ Moping about the house wasn’t an option, not with Nat. She’d made him set an alarm every morning, made him get up, even if he wasn’t doing anything. She marched him in and out of the city every single day, made him look for jobs, made him call up his old friends from high-school and go out and get drunk and things were, things were… And then Bucky had kind of just collapsed in the middle of the club, sobbing and clutching at Nat and Clint and Tony desperately and still, Natasha made him get up that next morning and made him eat his eggs and bacon, a stern expression on her face.

_“You’re not going to let this get the better of you, James, do you understand? You are going to fight it.”_

But it is. It is getting the better of him and Bucky has no fight left.

 

.

 

Wanda is pissed but Bucky manages to talk her round. Or rather, he kneels by her feet and promises her he won’t fuck up again.

“I’m only saying okay because our other piano guy is _hopeless_.” She grumbles as Bucky drops quick, grateful kisses to her feet.

“What? The other guys missing both hands?” Bucky teases with a charming grin, jumping back to his feet and pushing a hand through his now significantly cleaner hair.

Wanda gives him a look that tells him to ‘shut the fuck up’ whilst Pietro lets out a loud, long laugh, his grey eyes sparkling with mirth.

“We are needing the sympathy play.” Pietro tells him with a wink and Bucky manages a small smile, unable to help but hear the truth in his words, unintentional or not.

“No more fucking up.” Wanda warns as she begrudgingly shoves the sheet music against Bucky’s chest. “You’ve missed like three rehearsals in a row.”

Bucky pulls a face and gives Wanda an apologetic look that she sees right through. 

“Just go warm up.” She snaps. “And I’ve already told the new bartender not to give you anything to drink while you’re here so don’t even try it.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and makes his way across the cool tiled floor. The tiles steadied him as he went to check out the new bartender. The owner of the bar, Sam, was a pretty awesome guy who was always happy to rent out his space to Wanda for rehearsals but he was too loyal to her, never wanting to slip Bucky even one measly drink. The last barmaid had been sweet enough, putting a little vodka into Bucky’s sodas but then Nat had found out and voila; pretty, young barmaid was suddenly unemployed. He pulls up a stool by the bar as he waits for the dancers to warm up. It was an old, open warehouse that Sam had renovated and the kind of clientele he had actually liked to watch the dancers practice and sometimes left Bucky tips for playing the piano. Sam grins the second he appears and leans close to take in Bucky’s face.

“Oh, you look rough, man. I mean, you were bad leaving here at midnight. Don’t want to even imagine how you looked at six o’clock in the morning.” He teases, sliding a bottle of water Bucky’s way.

“Heard there’s fresh blood. Gimme a look at her.” Bucky orders as he flips the lid off the bottle.

Sam tuts loudly and shakes his head.

“Not this time, my man. I hired myself an honest, decent young bar _man_ who will not be seduced by your big pretty eyes or ridiculous smile.” Sam declares, taking a step back to call at his new employee to come over.

Bucky follows Sam’s gaze and watches as a small, slim, blonde-haired boy who looked no older than eighteen made his way over, a pleasant smile on his pink lips. Bucky raises an eyebrow at Sam and takes a long swig of his water.

“Jailbait, huh? Things that bad? You could have hired me, you know.” He points out.

Sam gives Bucky an amused look and shakes his head.

“And have you pocket all my vodka. No way. Bucky, this is Steve; Steve, this is the guy you were told to never serve alcohol to when he’s working.” Sam announces and Bucky smirks as he takes in the fact that Steve’s shoulders are barely over the counter. 

“What age are ya kid? Your ma know you’re working in a place like this?” Bucky asks sweetly and the look Steve gives him is cold.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m twenty-four, asshole.” Steve snaps and Bucky is a little startled by the delighted grin on Sam’s face.

“Apologies. You just look a little young is all.” Bucky says carefully.

“And you look and smell like a vagrant and _I_ didn’t comment.” Steve points out, mimicking the sweet tone Bucky had first used when speaking to him.

Bucky scoffs and raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, if Ralph Lauren did vagrants. Gimme a beer.” He orders, waving five dollars in Steve’s face and Bucky is just teasing, kind of but Steve grabs the five dollar bill and shreds it in half before tossing the pieces back in Bucky’s face.

“You’re not allowed alcohol during working hours. Go play your keyboard.” He sneers before turning around and heading back to the tables he’d been cleaning.

Bucky stares at Sam in shock, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.

“What the-”

“He’s highly-strung.” Sam cuts across, that stupid grin still on his face. “He’s also extremely defensive and ready to fight at any moment. It’s both endearing and terrifying.”

“Where did you find him?” Bucky asks, as he hops down from his stool now that the dancers are lined up and ready.

“At a party. He was helping some under-agers who’d drunk too much. He’s friends with Stark.”

 

.

 

Playing the piano hurts. It hurts Bucky to sit there and listen to the heavy, clunky fall of his metal fingers against his feather-light flesh ones. But as Wanda said, they were desperate and Bucky was obviously the best of a bad lot. He used to be the best of the best. He’d had a future in music before. He doesn’t think he has a future now, not really. Not in anything that would make his parents proud.  
But he distracts himself. He forces himself to watch the dancers, admire the way their bodies move in time to the rhythm his stiff fingers manage to deliver. They’re beautiful, Bucky decides, even if they’re all a little too old to ever make it, a little too flawed and scarred to actually achieve their dreams.  
Pietro and Natasha are the best. They move with force and strength and precision and when she pirouettes across their makeshift stage, Bucky can almost close his eyes and see her on a proper stage, the kind of stage that was worthy of her.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can make out Steve resting on a table, his short, skinny legs dangling as he follows the movements of the dancers, his face alight with something pure and it makes Bucky’s chest ache in the strangest of ways because he can’t remember the last time he’d ever watched something and actually, genuinely enjoyed it.

“I need a drink.” He mutters to himself as he fixes his attention back on the pages before him, the notes swimming in front of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> A prologue, wee taster if you will. What do we think? Is it something we'd like to read?


End file.
